


Roads We Walk

by melodious_rain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: "I love you", Angst AF, Blood and Injury, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Trauma, Meta, Season/Series 04, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Temporary Character Death, also Mystrade if you squint, me: i am dead, my thoughts following the s4 preview, no exposition we start in the middle of a scene like men, our dads are so cruel, prayer circle for my google search history, s4 predictions, supposed character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 05:30:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8832268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melodious_rain/pseuds/melodious_rain
Summary: The roads we walk have demons beneath. And Sherlock's have been waiting for a very long time. Culverton Smith is the very worst and most evil adversary they have ever faced. Sherlock, John and Mycroft are unwilling participants in a devious psychological experiment. Culverton Smith has locked the three of them in a room with a gun, with an ultimatum: one of them has to die, or they all will.Or: my take on what the preview shows us, and one scene I'm betting my bottom dollar will happen in s4.





	

"I'd like to thank you for your interest in my little project, however unwillingly you are participating," Culverton smiled. "First matter of business, is this," the doctor picked up the handgun resting on the chrome table before them. "This is a live weapon," he told them gleefully. He handed it to Sherlock.

Sherlock took it immediately, and John shifted his weight nervously. Their eyes met briefly before Sherlock handed the gun to the army doctor, who checked it the clip and found it fully loaded.

"The question my experiment will answer is just this: when three people are locked in a room and given a countdown to kill one of the others, who will be more likely to do the killing, and who will be the one killed," the doctor described placidly.

John and Sherlock locked gazes incredulously before turning back to the psychotic doctor.

"Well, I think the choice here is pretty obvious, isn't it?" John deadpanned, staring at the third occupant in the room.

Culverton tilted his head back and laughed good-naturedly. "Oh, I am not a variable, only an observer."

Before either of them could question him about the third subject, there was a clamour in the hallway as footsteps approached and someone was shoved in past the guards. Mycroft stumbled into the room, in his three piece suit and all.

John cursed under his breath and rubbed his eyes. His arm held the gun loosely against his left side. The weapon suddenly felt like a hundred kilograms.

Sherlock stared wordlessly, deducing his brother up and down, finding him to have a bruised side. He also likely took a hard blow to the head. The detective swallowed and swiveled to find Culverton grinning passively at him, watching him.

"You were always my favorite patient," the doctor told him gleefully. "Always surprising me. Well, let the experiment begin. You three have fifteen minutes to decide who dies and who will kill them. Cheerio!"

"That's not happening," John ground out. "Nobody's going to die here. You can't make us."

Culverton turned, looking like he just remembered something. "Oh, yes. I actually can. Because you see this room is rigged to fill with poisonous gas that will kill everyone locked in this hermetically sealed room." He smiled. "The only way to prevent all three of you from dying is for one of you to kill another. And I'll have no heroism! Anybody suicides, I'll have the room gassed."

"What is this? We can't _do_ this!" cried Mycroft incredulously. "Is this supposed to be a game?"

"The most dangerous one," Culverton smiled. And then he and the guards left, the door sliding shut noisily and sealing with a hiss.

There was a long silence where all three of them stared at the door, either blankly or with thoughts racing in their head. The silence was broken by a tinny voice that suddenly cracked through an unseen speaker.

"The time starts now, gentlemen," said Culverton, and a black screen behind Sherlock lit up with red numbers that lazily began to count back from fifteen minutes.

" _Jesus,_ " John blasphemed, rubbing his hand over his face. Sherlock found him staring down at the floor.

"Well, I'd like to thank the two of you for dragging me into this," Mycroft hissed imperiously, cocking his head angrily. "Gregory believes me to be in a meeting, so there will be no rescue from him."

"What about your work?" John wondered. "You're telling me MI6 isn't going to notice you missing?"

"Not in any sense of timeliness," Mycroft groused.

14:38

14:37

14:36

"You're the only one who watches his wards with such hawkishness, brother dear," Sherlock agreed quietly. His eyes were wide as saucers and still locked on the door. With a sudden burst of feverish energy, the detective threw himself toward the door, searching agitatedly for a way to open it.

John and Mycroft stood silently as they watched Sherlock search the entire room from top to bottom for some breach in the seal. Some way to escape. There was no sound save for Sherlock's curses and frantic movements, which grew louder as the timer ticked down.

10:56

10:55

10:54

"No, no, no no no no..." Sherlock stammered in a tremulous murmur. "No way out. No breach, no nothing. I, I can't... There's... John," he whirled to look desperately at the former soldier. "John, there's got to be..."

He took in John's slumped stance, gun still dangling from his limp grasp. He slowly locked eyes with the detective, his mouth a tight line.

Sherlock tore his gaze away to plead wordlessly with his brother.

Mycroft quickly resumed his adamant rejection of the situation. "I've seen the building codes for this warehouse, and I've been tracking Smith's accounts and deals. There is no way he has access to a system for _gassing people,_ " his brother scowled skeptically.

"No way that _you're_ aware of," John rebuked lowly. Sherlock watched his friend lick his lips and swallow.

Mycroft scoffed. "Do you seriously believe someone could smuggle toxic gas in my own city without _me_ knowing about it? The Prime Minister can't use the toilet without one of my people being aware."

"You're not God, Mycroft!" John bellowed suddenly.

A horrified hush fell over the room.

9:01

9:00

8:59

"Well... what do you suggest?" Mycroft wondered dazedly. "One of us _shoot_ someone?"

"Wouldn't be the first time," Sherlock recited numbly. His gaze was fixed on the distant wall between the other two.

"Absolutely not!" Mycroft cried. " _No one_ is dying in this godforsaken room!"

"How idyllic," Sherlock deadpanned. He dove voraciously into his mind palace, barreling into every room that could be of some use. Figures of Molly, Mycroft and Moriarty flickered before him, but he shoved them all aside if he couldn't get anything useful from them.

His heart was beating wildly in his chest, horror choked his throat and the room seemed to tilt under his feet. A helpful image of Molly idly urged him not to go into shock.

5:22

5:21

5:20

John shook his head, face thunderously blank. In a rage filled whisper, he hissed into the deafening quiet, "No. I'm not doing this. One of you will have to. Just shoot me and you two can leave. Both of you will be able to take down Smith. You don't need me." He thrust the weapon out, holding it by the barrel.

Mycroft crossed his arms and frowned. "Don't be ridiculous, we have two of the best minds in Britain in this room! Sherlock, we can think of something," he insisted, terror slowly beginning to creep into his voice. He shied away from John's hand minutely.

John was still holding out the gun, stormy blue gaze murderous. "Someone take this!" he growled.

Sherlock took it instinctively, the grip still warm from John's hand. Numbly he turned it over in his hands, finding the safety on. His thumb pressed to it, not toggling it, just feeling the cool metal with the pad of his fingertip.

The other two men in the room stared at him unblinkingly. Sherlock couldn't meet either of their gazes. Instead, he turned away and stared blindly at the timer counting down.

4:45

4:44

4:43

"Sherlock," John's voice rumbled through the detective's entire body. "Culverton needs to be taken down. You're the only one who can do it. He's obsessed with you. If you die, he might lose interest and go into hiding."

"John's right, of course," Mycroft agreed. "But _no one_ has to die. I'm nearly positive."

" _Nearly?!_ " John hissed. "Nearly isn't enough. If we all die, who will stop Culverton? And who will he go after next? Greg? Mary? _The baby?"_

4:19

4:18

4:17

"If anything, this will buy the two of you more time," John went on. " _That's_ your worst case scenario if we play his game."

"It's not a game, John," Sherlock interjected numbly. His eyes were burning, his heart was hammering, his palms were sweating. Anguished, pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, rubbing away the moisture gathering there.

4:06

4:05

4:04

"Sherlock, just do it," John pled. "It's alright, I don't blame you. I'd do it myself if I could. It's... it's alright."

Sherlock couldn't tear his eyes away from the timer to look at John's face. No matter how badly he wanted to. The gun burned hot in his hand. He realized numbly he was likely going into shock, as the Molly of his mind palace warned him. There was no way out of this. He'd played right into that psychotic psychiatrist's hand. And now he'd have to kill one of the most important men in his life.

Culverton knew what he was doing when he'd set this up. He was trying to force Sherlock's secret into the open. And the detective had no choice.

There was no choice.

"I'm sorry..." Sherlock's detached voice rumbled out of his chest. "I can't."

Behind him, John pinched the bridge of his nose.

3:42

3:41

3:40

Before John could ask Mycroft to take this seriously and relieve Sherlock of the gun, the detective's low voice rung around the room:

"I love you," he confessed.

Mycroft and John started in surprise at the hushed words. Before either of them could react, the detective continued.

"And I'm sorry."

Sherlock switched off the safety, tore his eyes away from the timer and pointed the gun straight at his brother.

"Sherlock!"

"NO!"

The gun in his hand fired, but not before his arm was forced downwards and away from his intended target. John had thrown himself into the bullet's path to grab for the gun, thinking only of disarming Sherlock. Horrified, Sherlock stared down at his friend as he fell to the concrete floor. On his knees, John clutched at Sherlock's wrist dazedly, eyed locked somewhere in the middle distance and black with fear.

" _John_ ," Sherlock choked out in shock. "John, no." Before Sherlock's own terrified eyes, a wet stain bloomed on John's black jacket. With a clatter, the gun was on the floor several feet away and Sherlock scrabbled for the zipper. The navy shirt underneath was blackening as the wound inches above the army doctor's heart bled through the fabric.

Sherlock's mind palace was practically turned upside down. A sprite of Molly was trying to advise him of something but alarms were blaring too loud and the buzzing drowned her out. It was a million times worse than when Sherlock himself had been shot. He was barely aware of his mouth repeating John's name in a frantic chant.

John was clutching weakly at Sherlock's shoulders, trying to keep himself upright. "Subclavian.... just... matter of.... minutes..." he was muttering as his breaths became more and more laboured.

"How could you do that?!" choked out Sherlock, struggling to hold under his arms to hold John up. His right hand was slippery and wet with blood, which was beginning to soak John's back. A through-and-through. "John, I _can't_ -" he stopped himself with a whimper.

"It's fine, you're fine," John insisted, voice slurring.

"No, _I'm not,_ John Watson, I _need you,"_ Sherlock fought the instinct to clam up, much like he had on the tarmac. Back then, he'd thought that would be the last time he ever saw John, but this was John, _actually dying._ He was slipping away, he could see it. Every beat of his heart lost the doctor another spurt of blood. Liters and liters of vivacious red liquid, staining Sherlock's shirt and jacket, pooling on the floor.

"Sherlock," John whispered, body becoming heavier and heavier in his arms.

Sherlock swallowed a heave of bile and choked out, "John, please... Please, I love you. I can't do this without you. Please don't do this..."

John was hyperventilating now. "You..." he panted, "berk.... I..." John's mouth ceased to form words just before he went limp, eyes sliding closed as he lost consciousness.

The timer reached just under the three minute mark before it blinked off and an alarm buzzed loudly through the room.

Sherlock was no longer aware of anything besides the warmth of blood spurting sluggishly between his fingers as he attempted to hold pressure on John's wounds. He couldn't get enough air, his throat felt raw and he may have been shouting, but he couldn't hear anything through the awful ringing overtaking his senses. Distantly he heard someone speaking, perhaps his brother, maybe someone else, but he didn't make much sense of what was going on before he blacked out.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Whew, I'd like to apologize for that. I've been running around in circles while screaming for over 24 hours so this is what we've got. I'm tempted to write up my ideas for the reunion scene but I'm still a bit shaky about the facts there. But who knows so second chapter?? Maybe???


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